Our lives 
like cloth are woven,
starting with each

umbilical cord pulled free,

tightly threaded and snipped, 
leaving only a single button.
Each a splendid creation granted 
from the moment we are 
wrapped in swaddling.

We spend our lives 
reaping what we sew,
and much of what remains 
from the fashioning 
of our existence, 
often winds up as

fabrications mixed in

with what is true it seams.

There are patches 
to lovingly replace 
the holes torn in our souls, 
many frayed nerves exposed 
over loose threads of hope, 
plus someone needling us 
most of our lives.

We are often faced with 
knitted brows, hems and haws,
and seemingly endless yards 
of work to complete. 

Many share the 
ragged edges of poverty,
in worn patterns that 
tragically repeat themselves,
some struggle with the 
necessity of hand me downs,
while others find the satin smooth 
stretches of material wealth for all.

We alone chose our wardrobes
whether silk or burlap
by the stitches in time
that we render skillfully
or callously without care.

We have opportunities 
to stroll with success 
over glamorous runways
or hobble along 
in our dirty laundry.

There is no thimble 
for one's heart 
as we move through 
the rapid production 
of life's fabrics that are 
draped or heaped upon us daily,
whether ill-fitting or tailor-made.

Eventually it all winds up a shroud 
as our last garment is unzipped 
and a body bag enfolds us
Then a silk lined box becomes
a pin cushion for the 
eventual tumble of our weary bones.

Only our souls re-materialize,
taking wings resplendent 
in heavenly raiment's,
or forever left cloaked 
in dark robes of despair.